~ Iunday, 29th of Septembrie, 11831 ~

She was radiant. Golden hair styled in an elaborate chignon, purple larkspur woven throughout, curls framing her face. The first piece of jewelry he had ever bought her, a necklace of the same flower in amethyst, rested in the hollow of her throat. Her gown seemed white until she was right beside him, and only then could he see it was the palest bleu. In her hands she held a bouquet of red roses, orange blossoms, and babe’s breath—passion, fruitfulness, and everlasting love.

He had not been allowed to see her for three days before their wedding, some obscure tradition his mother had found romantic and insisted upon, and at the moment he could not fault the reine. He had never felt so in love before.

She smiled, her blue eyes shining with joyous tears as she placed her arm in his.

“Are you ready, darling?” he whispered. She nodded, blinking quickly and squeezing his gloved hand.

“I am, dear.”

They walked the aisle of the castle’s cathedral together; the lord of death and his bride.

They had been childhood friends who grew apart when he left for university, and then found each other again upon his return. Their summer was spent together at his estate, where they had learned of troubles in the land which needed the return of their duc. She had aided him, proving to herself and others that she would be a good duchesse at his side. He had asked for her hand on her eighteenth birthday, and she accepted.

The priest spoke of love and friendship; of trust and the unbreakable holy bonds of matrimony. The couple held hands throughout, standing together before the altar, their eyes not straying into the crowd of family, friends, and court.

When asked to say their vows, he embraced her, and in another old tradition, whispered the words into her ear so that no one else would know what his heart contained.

“Moi, Pierre Sylvain, je te prend, Elizabeth Anne…” He spoke their vows in the Clandestine tongue. It made the words no more valid than if they spoke in Saiva’s universal language, but it was more intimate. He too spoke his true name, the name his grandmother had revealed to him, that held power over him. A name he had told no one before and now he trusted her with.

She squeezed his hand while tears spilled down her cheeks. He kissed them away.

“Moi, Elizabeth Anne, je te prend, Pierre Sa—Sylvain…” She whispered her words to him in return, invoking his true name, and swearing on it everything he swore to her. Love, companionship, fidelity, for all days good and bad, through health and sickness, tragedy and joy. Anything unknown to become known, for they belonged to each other as one mind, flesh, and spirit.

As she pulled away, he scooped her back into his arms and added in a rush that they be wed not only in this life, but all lives forevermore, and should they return after death they find each other always, to fall in love all over again.

Her throat felt raw from trying to stop another wave of tears. Ascending their marriage into one of soulmates was a rarity in Clandestina, and she had not known he planned this. Perhaps it had not been planned at all, but in the moment he had been unable to stop his desire.

She nodded and agreed quickly. Forevermore.

The priest smiled at them when they broke apart. He announced to all that, with those vows, they were married. The court cheered.

His Graceful Highness Pierre Salvador, heir to the duchy of Piques and princeling of Triumphe, and Lady Elizabeth Anne, daughter of the comte d’Eichel, were bound on the twenty-ninth day of Septembrie, during the 11831th year of Eos, in the light of the Blue Moon.

They did not stay at their reception for very long. An obligatory first dance between the two of them, and a handful of dances with kin, but their eyes were only for each other. Their guests could see this—after every dance with a third party, Pierre and his wife returned to each other’s arms, spending it whispering and laughing, kissing and making promises for their night together, until they were separated again out of need to be polite and interact with others.

As Lizzy was taken to dance by her father, Pierre waltzed with a woman in black. By his smile he was not offended by the choice in color, and no one else commented on who some believed was a maid, or perhaps a nurse? Maybe a friend that was not noble? But if Pierre wished to dance with her, who would deny him on his wedding day.

After this, no other guests broke them up, and several dances later, the bride and groom made their excuses to cheers. They offered the ballroom until dawn for all who wished to celebrate and made their way to their bedroom.

Lizzy giggled, holding onto Pierre’s arms and standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. When he turned to her, she caught his lips, and he picked her up in a spin.

“Pierre!” Her laugh filled the empty room, and her new husband almost took her right in this moment.

“Oui, ma femme?” She could not reply as he kissed her again. When he let go of her lips to move onto her jaw, her words came out as a gasp.“Je t’aime, Pierre!”

“Je t’adore, mon petit Lizzy. Je t’adore pour toujours.”

A cold wind rushed down their backs, interrupting them. Pierre’s arms tightened around Elizabeth before he stepped back, keeping Lizzy’s hand tight in his, and they stood together to greet the woman in the black gown.

Pierre bowed. Elizabeth curtsied.

“My Lady Mora,” he said. “You honor me by being a guest at my wedding. And by giving your blessing and love to us.”

“My dear Pierre. My dear Elizabeth.”

Death smiled softly, reaching out to touch Pierre’s cheek. Her fingers caressed his jaw and continued down his neck and chest. At his navel, she stopped and pulled back her hand, drawing a circle around his groin. To his embarrassment, the desire he had held for Elizabeth had not dimmed upon Mora’s arrival, and she now looked at his tight trousers.

“I shall grant you a wedding gift,” Mora said, straightening. “A more equal balance of Life and Death in your magia for five years’ time.”

He felt something between his legs, and in his soul, twist, and then resettle. He adjusted his stance.

“Merci, Ma Dame.”

“Anything, my favorite.”

The daimon of death was gone as soon as she appeared.

“Are you alright?” Lizzy asked. Pierre nodded, kissing Lizzy’s knuckles and smiling to her.

“Oui, yes, my dear. You remember how I mentioned it may be difficult for us to have children due to my cræft?”

“Yes.”

“It seems Mora has unbound me from that shackle for a time.”

“Well,” Elizabeth said with a wide smile, unable to stop the blush on her cheeks as Pierre sat on their bed and pulled his wife into his lap. “As your nurse and healer, let me see and make certain you are well.”